March 17, 1994

The world ended on March 17, 1994. I was told the news with calmness. My son was dead. The world ended, my heart spilt. I wanted to find a cliff, jump, get away from the pain. They calmly talk all the medical info my mind wondered, I heard nothing. He is dead echoed in my mind, an empty cavern of despair. They talk abut the surgery in the morning. They talk about what time I need to be there. How I should not eat or drink after midnight. They talked, I cried, I grieved. My son was dead and they didn't care. To them he was a fetus to me he was my son, my baby, my child. I had been carrying him inside for 22 weeks. 22 beautiful wonderful weeks and now he was gone, and they talked of medical procedures. They talked of reasons and I cried. They said words that I didn't want to hear. It was a mistake after all he couldn't be dead, but I saw the ultrasound, his tiny heart had stopped. My son was now cold and dead inside me, and I grieved, cried, screamed and hurt. Weeks flew by as the pain stayed on my heart. Months went by as I saw all the other's pushing the carriages. I hated them all! I wanted, I needed my son. I hated them all! I longed to hold him just once. Years passed and the hole in my heart stayed. My hatred vanished, but the pain remained. A reminder of my son, who I love so deeply. As I hold my other children in my arms, I feel his presences. I feel him near me, his love and his spirit. He is gone, but never forgotten.to Samuel Written March 10th, 2002 © on Mar 10 2002 01:46 AM PST    18 • 0 • 1